Quid est?
by meldahlie
Summary: Was Susan the only one left behind after the train crash? A rather bleak one-shot, post LB.


"What you doing?"

What am I doing? I'm standing on the path behind the gym, staring into the damp, bleak, autumnal shrubbery, but I turn sharply on the caretaker's little six year old brat who's sneaked up behind me. "Nothing!"

He points one grubby little finger at me triumphantly. "You're crying!" The joy of this discovery – a 'Big Girl' crying – leads him to execute a chauvinistic sort of war dance about me. "Crying! Crying! You've been crying!"

My arms unfold themselves of their own accord. He capers backwards, not as fast as I could catch him – but if I hit him, if I give him the slapping he deserves–

I turn, and flee away under the shrubbery.

It's ages, miles, and I've snagged my cardigan on branches in half-a-dozen places and got quite out of breath before I can't hear that little chanting voice any more. _"_ _You've been crying! You've been crying!"_ How many times have I heard that sing-song chant? Joined in with it myself? The first part of attending to any kid weak enough to cry when _They_ were after them. Then Cholmondley Major would blow his nose on his handkerchief and –

I don't want to remember. That's why I run, these days – that and because my hands do remember, no matter how much I don't want to. That caretaker's brat – one good 'attending to' and he wouldn't be pointing any more grubby little fingers. But if I hit anyone, with my record, with my suspended sentence as it were – I'll be expelled. And I'm only here at Experiment House because my mother and step-father can't afford to send me anywhere else.

I don't want to be expelled, either. Or I thought I didn't. I didn't want to think of all the juniors whispering in the changing room: _"Edith Jackle got expelled too."_ And swapping tales about where I'd gone, like they do for Adele Pennyfather, who's had to go to a convent school, or Carver, who's had to leave school altogether and start on the shop-floor of his uncle's paint and varnish business, 'cause nowhere at all would take him.

I didn't want that. I wasn't one of _Them._ Not really. Just a hanger on and tale-bearer. I thought I'd live it down.

Living. That's why I'm standing here, under the shrubbery now. All right, blubbing if you want the truth. 'Cause Jill Pole and Eustace Scrubb are dead. Pole especially. I'm not blubbing 'cause she's died, before you think that. I'm not soft. I'm blubbing because she was alive.

There you go. I'm not even making sense. I know what I mean, I do. Really!

What _do_ I mean?

I don't know.

Pole's dead. That's what they read out in Assembly. Pole and Scrubb, in that train crash that was in the papers and on the radio. Lots of people were killed, on the train and in the station, but that included Pole. Scrubb too, I know, but that's not making me cry. Scrubb didn't bother me. I don't mean bother me like, you know, boys. Or like _Them_. He used to be like me, one of those who hung round _T_ _hem._ No, it's Pole. Pole bothers me.

Pole never bothered anybody. She didn't hang round _T_ _hem._ She was little and quiet and for a big kid, she blubbed quickly. _They_ found her fun. I was always going to fetch her.

Then it was – that day. _They'd_ had a go at Pole earlier in the afternoon, and wanted her again, and I knew where she'd gone. Down there, behind the gym, just like I was. She ran before I got there, and _they_ all laughed and set out on the chase. Right through the shrubbery, we chased her, and out to the back wall and the gate. It's a spot the kids often ran to – some wild tale you hear when you first come to Experiment House and can't stand it, that once, someone, sometime, found the gate open. No-one does.

We didn't either.

The wall was torn down, and a great golden lion just like on the American movie news only way bigger was lying in the gap, facing away from us and towards a bright grassy slope that's never been there before beyond the wall, and there were these people rushing down towards us. Edith Winterblott cried afterwards that there were dozens of them, but there were only three, really. Three was quite enough. They had bright, bright clothes, and bright, bright faces, though nothing as bright as that lion, and they all waved swords.

No. The third one had a whip or riding crop or something – not sharp. It left the most amazing red weal on Adele Pennyfather's arm, even through her cardigan. If it had been a sword, it would have cut it off, wouldn't it? For those bright people rushed at _Them._ Two of them at the boys, the third one at the girls, and pretty soon, they ran. The whole gang, screaming. Then the Head ran, and she started screaming too, and then I ran – and everything happened.

You know. The Inquiry, and all of _Them_ getting expelled, and me getting questioned and questioned and questioned, and eventually told I could stay. And the Head went, too, like _Them_. Not 'cause she'd been picking on anybody, of course. 'Cause of the way everything was, and the fact that she was behaving like a lunatic by the time the police got here, that day.

That scares me. Everybody said she was mad or having a nervous breakdown or something and dragged her off to a sanatorium for her nerves. But she wasn't. I swear by – by – by everything. She wasn't.

Or if she was, I'm mad too. Because I saw it. The wall, and the huge lion, and the strange grassy slope that's never been there beyond the wall. And those three, bright figures, with the shining faces and the shining swords. But that's the real thing – the really bothering thing. The third one of them. It was Pole.

I saw her! I saw her! I didn't make a mistake: it was Pole. Bright and shining and in the most amazing clothes, yes; but Pole. Pole the weak, the timid, the blubbing baby of the Form – bright and tall and brandishing a what-ever-it-was against _Them_. Afterwards, when I finally dared look at her, she didn't look like that again. Not really. Except – sometimes – sometimes she'd sort of glow. Her eyes, sort of – no, I can't explain it. Like she was alive – alive-r than the rest of us, with all that brightness bottled up inside.

It came out at the funniest times. Like really dull history lessons. With the teacher droning on, and me forgetting that I had to be good now and pay attention, every moment. I'd look round and Pole would be sitting there, eyes just … shining.

She never spoke to me, of course. But – she never swanked, either. Never picked back, for all those hits and pinches and tale-bearings; not even putting her nose in the air to walk past. I clung to that, in a way, 'til last hols. Told myself that she would – swank, like – if it really had been Pole. That I must, must have been mistaken. If it had been Pole, one of the others would have been Scrubb, seeing how pally they are – I mean, were, since; but I don't know who the third one could have been. So I hoped I was wrong. Then I was at this evening "Do" at my aunt's in the hols. Not quite a party, but a grown-up affair, and one of the ladies was asking me about school. I hate having to say "Experiment House," however much I remind myself whoever's asked doesn't know about Before and _Them,_ or now and how the teachers say I'm clever in a regretful way as if they really wish cleverness had been endowed on anyone other than Edith Jackle of the suspended sentence.

But I'm good, I'm polite, I look up and smile and say "Experiment House" – and this lady's face lit up. She'd met one of my schoolmates! At a fancy dress ball, sometime or other! And if I was still at school, this other girl must be too. Did I know her? Jill Pole – such a nice girl – and a stunning costume!

I can't remember what I said. I think I just mumbled something, while she went on and on, describing those bright, bright robes, flowing silk and swirling velvet, that I'd last seen rushing down the hill from beyond the broken wall, brandishing that whip-thing as an instrument of justice. Nemesis, I think the word is. Or is it Euminides? Or Valkyrie? I'm not sure. I study like mad; it's a good way to stay out of everyone's way, but there's such a long way to catch up when you've spent your days doing … other things.

Anyway, then I knew it was Pole. Suddenly, I couldn't think of anything to say, and that's a first rate problem at a grown-up "Do" where everyone stands around, talking. I went and found my aunt and told her I was tired after all, and since it was ten o'clock she said she quite understood, and sent me off to bed. I lay awake half the night, and finally fell asleep just in time to be woken by my little cousins murdering each other or something on the landing outside my door.

It was a rotten visit, all round. It should have been fun. I mean, I've been to stay with Aunt and the cousins before, it's a cheap way for mother and I to go and see London for a few days. But this time, I went by myself. It was mother's idea, "to cheer me up." She didn't know about the inquiry or anything; they didn't write to parents unless you were actually getting expelled. All mother and my step-father know is that I'm coming home with good marks, being good and polite and studious and everything, and "not looking very happy," as mother put it.

If you are good, shouldn't you be happy? I guess that only applies to people other than me. Like Pole – but anyway. I got packed off to Aunt's. The three little cousins stood in a row and stared at me when I arrived, somewhat in state in a taxi from the station all by myself. Anxiously. Like they always do. They're a pesky bunch of brats; I suppose they thought I was going to be – like Before. No-one pesters to have stories read or games played if they get a pinch for their pains. They go off howling to Aunt and get out of my hair, I'm not a nursemaid – or rather, I wasn't.

The way they looked at me like I was Edith from Before made me feel sick. I gave them all a nice bright smile and said "Hello, Paul, Jim, Shirley. Haven't you all grown?!" Just like a grown-up. I kept it up, all weekend long visit, all squabbling mealtimes and runny nosed interruptions and a Saturday visit to the zoo. I was as patient with them as I could manage, and when Shirley had hysterics because she didn't want to ride on the elephant with Aunt and the boys, I said _'Never mind'_ and _'Don't cry'_ and _'_ _You and I_ _'ll_ _go_ _do something else_ _instead_ _'_ and took her to the panda house.

They've got just the one giant panda in there. She was right up at the back of her cage, clinging to the bars as if she wanted to get away from the ceaseless, trooping crowds, all pointing and staring. Wanted to, and couldn't. She looked just like – like all the kids, when they've run themselves into a corner trying to get away from _Them._ They know they're trapped, but they huddle up small and cling to the bars, and the likes of me go and fish them out.

Shirley stared at that panda for what felt like hours, and all the time I was waiting to hear Adele Pennyfather or any of the gang say "Jackle! Fetch her down!"

I've never enjoyed a visit to the zoo less.

Aunt told mother afterwards that it had been a pleasure to take me. I was "so quiet and sensible" and "such an influence on the children." I heard her, on the phone – you can hear what's said on her phone through the hatch from the dining room. It slides just a little bit too far over, and you get this crack to listen through at the side, where nobody thinks to look to see if the hatch is open. I just stand on the other side, fiddle a bit with the decanter bottle tops on the sideboard and hear every–

Oh, yes. That's eavesdropping, isn't it? Another thing on that long list of things decent people don't do. I'm learning, I'm learning. I'm clever, you know, however much the teachers regret it. And I'm being good. Yeah. And I'm standing under the shrubbery, blubbing.

Of course the children were good. They're terrified of me. Everyone is, or at least, they remember me, from Before. Or maybe they can tell that's it's really only the surface that's changed. That me, from Before, is still here. My hands that remember, and eavesdropping on telephone calls, and all. For all I'm being good. They know that, and they're afraid of me. Face it, I'm afraid of me.

Pole isn't. I mean, wasn't. That's what bothers me. That's why I'm blubbing.

No matter how good I am, it's not like Pole. That … bright shining-ness.

What happened that day? What's beyond that wall?

I've tried so hard. But I still want to know. Pole – what was it? How did you do it? What did you find beyond that wall?

Why are you dead so I can never ask?

~:~:~

 _A/N: Anyone who can place the verse fragment this title, if translated, is, gets hot cross buns from the plot bunnies!_

 _On a sadder note, I am sorry to have to say that though Edith Jackle, Pole, Scrubb and Them are all the creation and property of CSL, the panda is borrowed from London Zoo via Rosemary Sutcliff's 'Blue Remembered Hills' and is, sadly, true. :(_


End file.
